


When the Windmill Stops Turning

by damozel



Category: Jonathan Creek (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Mystery, Reunions, Riddles, Yuletide 2019, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:21:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21943543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damozel/pseuds/damozel
Summary: Was it the heavy oak door or only his rickety old knees that creaked with dismay as Jonathan eased his way into the ivy-clad entrance hall? A widower at sixty-four, no one could blame him for thinking his days of sneaking about in creepy old mansions were long behind him. A familiar frisson of excitement shot down his spine all the same as he ventured deeper inside Maudlin Manor...
Relationships: Jonathan Creek/Maddy Magellan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	When the Windmill Stops Turning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enchantedsleeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enchantedsleeper/gifts).



Was it the heavy oak door or only his rickety old knees that creaked with dismay as Jonathan eased his way into the ivy-clad entrance hall? A widower at sixty-four, no one could blame him for thinking his days of sneaking about in creepy old mansions were long behind him. A familiar frisson of excitement shot down his spine all the same as he ventured deeper inside Maudlin Manor. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Spider.” He pushed a thick canopy of cobwebs and dead insects to one side, spluttering as one of the trailing tendrils tickled the back of his throat. “I suppose that’s your Christmas buffet gone to the dogs.”

A feeling of _deja vu_ washed over the ageing sleuth as he stared up at the grand staircase in front of him. The owner of a place like this must surely have a bob or two tucked away in his back pocket, but you wouldn’t have known it from the sorry state of the Christmas decorations. A few limp trails of spruce hung off the banisters as if they were clinging on for dear life, and the tree shoved in the corner of the bay window looked more like his granny’s old kitchen broom than a festive bush. Was there a more depressing sight in the world than the battered, crooked fairy that sat atop this sad symbol of the season?

“And here’s the man himself,” Jonathan exhaled as he locked eyes with the portrait hung in pride of place above the fireplace. The thick gold frame, adorned with elaborate embellishments, must have been the most attractive thing in the room. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the gentleman depicted, pretentiously posed next to a globe that would forever remind Jonathan of decapitated heads. What could only be described as a greying bowl-shaped head of hair sat atop a shallow but fierce-seeming brow. The eyebrows were so thick and wiry that one might almost have believed they were stuck there by a jobbing actor set on playing the pantomime villain, and the large, misshapen nose had too a sense of theatrical absurdity about it. Alas, as Jonathan knew from scouring the internet over the past twenty-four hours, this visage was no disguise.

“Well, hello, Mr. Wim Dillmann,” he declared, begrudgingly doing his best to wipe away the sticky layer of grime gathered on the nameplate that sat beneath the mildly grotesque work of art. “Riddler extraordinaire.”

The request, when it came in the late hours of December 23rd, had been an odd one. In fact, it was lucky he had seen the email at all, so infrequently did he check in on his ‘professional’ account these days. Back in the day – the days with _her_ – requests for house calls at all hours of the day or night were ten a penny. An eccentric old writer asking him to pay him a visit on Christmas Eve night would hardly have caused the young magician’s assistant to blink an eye. Nor would the distinctly vague terms of the inquiry have bothered him it all.

He had to confess he felt more than a little out of touch when a swift internet search revealed the mysterious Mr. Dillmann as something of an online celebrity, as well as being the owner of a Cambridge double first in Physics and Mathematics and the author of several true crime books. In fact, Dillmann seemed to be renowned for his sleuthing abilities, with several subreddits dedicated to the outlandish criminal cases he had cracked. There were even rumours about an impossibly difficult treasure hunt, devised by Dillmann for his online fans. At this very moment, his followers were scouring the low countries in search of the priceless antiquities he had supposedly buried there.

It took the creak of a floorboard up above to jolt Jonathan out of his reverie. He would have been steadier in the old days.

“That you, Mr. Dillmann?” he called up, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the paper on which he had hastily taken down the instructions. “You told me to let myself in, I think?”

“Of course, I’ve been expecting you.”

From his position at the bottom of the staircase, Jonathan could only make out the familiar bushy mop of grey hair and the top of the eccentric mathematician’s eyebrows. “I, it, it wasn’t exactly clear from your email exactly what it is you, erm, want?” He was suddenly painfully aware of his own stooped shoulders and deeply wrinkled forehead. To have the confidence of youth back again!

“I think I mentioned I had a puzzle for you to solve,” Dillmann called down from the top of the stairs. His absurdly deep voice betrayed a bizarre mix of German and North American, with traces of an English accent thrown in there for good measure. “I’m tall when I’m old and I’m short when I’m young. What am I?”

“You – you asked me here to answer the riddle in your Christmas cracker?” Despite his anxiety, Jonathan struggled to suppress a snort.

“How about this one? What sits in the corner while travelling the globe?”

Jonathan was openly laughing now. “You’ll have to do better than that I’m afraid. I might've been off my game a bit, but I haven’t gone totally soft in the head.”

Dillmann was descending the stairs now, betraying his short stature as he turned the corner. “The thing with you, Jonathan, is that you can figure out the most impossible puzzle without seeing what’s bloody well right in front of your nose.”

What had happened to his voice, which suddenly seemed higher, and oh so slightly familiar?

“Is a silly anagram and a gingerbread trail of internet clues all it takes to fool the great Holmes these days?” 

That voice. It couldn’t be, could it?

“Well, I knew if I wanted the great Creek back a simple Facebook request wasn’t going to do it. Though inventing an online persona is surprisingly easy once you get stuck into it. Some of those Dillmann forums really took off!” Dillmann tugged furiously now at their eyebrows and nose, which suddenly seemed to be hanging off their face at an alarming angle. “ _Wim Dillmann_ , _Windmill Man_. I spent ages on that for the benefit of your curly mop. The mansion’s been fun, and I suppose I had to spend my literary millions on something, but my puzzles were never as clever as yours.” The guffaw that followed lit Jonathan’s heart on fire.

There’d been plenty of times in his life when one Miss Maddy Magellan left Jonathan Creek speechless, but this topped them all.

She was standing level with him now and this time when she leant up to kiss him the kiss felt different to all the kisses that had gone before. No games, no compromise, no promises of what might be. Just two adults who finally knew what they wanted – _who_ they wanted – for the rest of their lives.

She peeled off the remainder of her disguise, her bright red hair the same as it ever was. “Hello, My Windmill Man”. Her mouth was that infuriating mix of annoyance and indulgence that had always driven him wild.

“Hello my love,” said Jonathan, leaning in to kiss her again.


End file.
